


Damned

by serenevil



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom
Genre: Drugs, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Police, Seriously I don't know, Slow Burn, Swearing, saucy language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenevil/pseuds/serenevil
Summary: Amina harbours a secret that no one but her best friends know.And Harry Styles.But she carries his secrets in return. An eye for an eye.Some mature content.





	1. Talk is Cheap

**Author's Note:**

> This is only the introduction. I suppose. I have no plans. Siobhan is pronounced Shevonne.
> 
> This is a work of fiction.

Nothing makes sense anymore. I couldn't tell you how it happened, but I will certainly try.

Here's the low-down. I was high at the time. That is a fact. I had just snorted ten grams off of Gerry's cousin's compact mirror with a piece of discarded ad paper that was...shall we say...suspiciously damp when Tyler rolled up on us, three sheets to the wind, absolutely plastered and singing the theme song to Friends like he was auditioning for a televised talent competition.

"My homeys!" Tyler sang out, swaying against a non-existent wind while attempting to navigate the furniture arrangement in Siobhan's grandparent's summer cottage. "Y'all are not gonna believe this shit!" he said loudly, plopping down on the sofa. Georgina was necking Aaron like he had the secret to youth hidden somewhere underneath his skin and Aaron was very enthusiastically embarking on a similar mission elsewhere.

"What." Joe asked. He only ever spoke in monotones. Something about how existentialism had radicalized his worldview into something or other that he would harp on about when he got blazed enough and let himself actually string more than two words together.

"Liv's gone and done a right minger on Pete but here's the shitty bit..." and Tyler paused for dramatic effect, hands vibrating in the air as if he were a medium sensing spiritual energy in the room. He leaned back, sprawling against the side of the couch and said "Barney's knobbed 'em."

"What." Joe exclaims. His eyes widen and his lips thin. The man was practically hyperventilating. For Joe. Aaron and Georgie disentangled themselves with the cumbersome awkwardness of mating octopus, Aaron absentmindedly rubbing his lips and Georgie adjusting her corset. Someone was not planning on some intimate tata touches tonight...ahem...anyways...

"The fuck?" Aaron said, reaching for some paper and the good stuff, glancing at Tyler while Bridge slurred, "...those fucking crusty ass bitches..." before tipping the red cup into her mouth and hiccoughing.

"They was doin' some bit o' doggin' down at Regent's when the Barneys roll in and catch 'im balls deep in the clunge--" Tyler cuts off as Bridge chokes on her drink.

I give her a pat on the back and she emerges with a huge grin on her face, sputtering, "Oh. My. God." in the most delighted voice, like she's just found a nondescript envelope stuffed with cash on an abandoned park bench. "They. Did. Not." Tyler grins, drawling, "They fucking well. Did. Too." in response.

"No shit?" Georgie cackles, holding up a light for Aaron and his perfectly rolled joint as he takes a drag, the tip lighting up like a firebug. Joe eyed the blunt like a fine slice of apple pie left by Grandma on the windowsill to cool, freshly baked. Aaron's eyes are closed as he breathes out a cloud of smoke and blindly passes the joint to Joe who swipes it with practiced ease.

"Oh yeah. So. She's ridin' dirty when the coppers pull up and she's mid-hump when they got the lights shinin' in her face and then there's all this cryin' and yellin' and shit." Tyler's managed to fob the cup off Bridge and takes a deep sip, belching booze breath in her face. Bridge snatches it back, disgusted. "Ewww....gross Tyler..." she whines, looking into the cup and slapping his shoulder when she sees he's chugged it all. Tyler just blows her a kiss of beer-infused air and wafts it at her face, chortling.

"So they get booked?" Aaron prompts, lazily taking the blunt back from Joe, expression sated, pupils dilated and face tilted towards the ceiling where someone's disco light was casting ever shifting patterns that seem to melt into each other like someone had dropped rainbow food colouring into a glass of milk and was idly running a stick through--

"Well, y'all know Liv right?" Tyler asks, eyes skittering on each of us and there's a general groan of consensus. Joe blows a smoke ring, Aaron's got his hand dangerously close to Georgie's tit, Bridgid's pouring herself another drink and I'm....not quite sure if I can feel all of my fingers....I was high-- I mentioned that. Right? Anyways,

"The Olivia Macnamera who keyed Michael Grayson's Porshe and had Steven Summer's serving community service for it all summer?" I break the moment and blink at Joe. The bass pounds to the beat of the pulse I can see thumping away at his wrists.

"What." Joe says, eyes blank and gaze hazy. I know he generally likes to stay out of the loop on stuff but I had no idea he hadn't heard that one. Bridge cuts in with, "Nah, Babs. The Liv who got Mrs. Sanders sacked for failing her in Spanish when she 'reported' her for 'discrimination' or some shit against minorities."

Aaron looked up from Georgie's cleavage and chimed in, "The old biddy gave detention to The Mob for stealing the air pressure simulator so they could trash Mr. Chau's corner store and clear out his safe." Bridge, full cup sloshing dangerously in her wavering arm, nudges Tyler's shoulder and jovially sings, "Did she or didn't she Ty?" Tyler reaches over her head to catch the blunt mid-rotation, grunting as he stretches.

Georgie's fingers tapping at lightening speed, was still going, "I think you mean the Olivia Macnamera who told her best friend's--ehem--former best friend's mum that she saw her husband cheating, even though he wasn't. They ended up getting divorced anyway."

"Daaayyum." Aaron whistles. "That's some fucked up shit right there." He sucks in a breath through his teeth, fingers tapping on his knee before he says, "I think you mean the Olivia Macnamera who got the grad trip cancelled coz it meant she couldn't go to some fashion thing in Europe." Georgie's face, illuminated by the blue glow of her screen, flashes a quick, appreciative grin that's mirrored in Aaron's own before Tyler cuts in.

"Proper fucked up, no joke." he spits out as he goes to take a quick whiff of the rapidly diminishing cig. "Liv being Liv. Stupid bint couldn't shut her fucking mouth for two seconds, starts cussing out the cops 'bout how they're 'havin' a moment' or some shit. Cops search the car." Tyler releases a breath and with it a cloud of smoke streams from both nostrils and mouth like a dragon after he's scorched the earth and razed a farmhouse, completely decimating the landscape and searing any life, exhaling gaseous exhaust fumes as remnants of the earlier fiery massacre--

"Found all the goodies and then some." The collective breath we'd been holding was released as the atmosphere deflated. Joe's eyes were hard. "What--"

"They got everything from roofies to reefur to guns in the trunk and powder under the caps. Shit blows up." Tyler takes a huge drag from his cup, his adam's apple bobbing as he gulps. Bridge has got both hands around her cup, staring at it with a solemn expression. Aaron's rubbing Georgie's upper arm as she leans against him, her phone hanging limp in one hand.

"Course it's Liv's car so..." Tyler trails off, hands fidgeting around his cup. Joe's gaze meets mine. Liv's car means Daddy's license plates and infinite pocketbook. It means fancy suits with great track records and impossible connections that could clear an oily hormonal teenager's skin of acne with the force of will alone. It means barely a slap on the wrist. It means--

"Collateral damage for Pete. They'll strike her a deal for a name." I mutter, sniffing. The lights are too bright. The music's beat turns wonky and faded, as though I'm hearing it through a radio tuning in and out of the station with inconsistent signal transmission. The heat from the bodies in the room is stifling instead of familiar. I can't seem to take a proper breath through all the smoke. The lights glinting off beer bottles and glassware and jewellery seem to flick off and drift in the air like dust particles...I can't...

"Amina" someone says. I startle as someone puts their hand on my shoulder. I stare at the alien appendage and follow its trajectory to meet Joe's gaze. He blinks. I blink. He squeezes my shoulder. I gasp. Air floods my lungs, the taste stale on a dry tongue but I keep breathing. "What..." Joe trails off as I turn away from him.

"She can wriggle her way around the drug charges but she can't manipulate the gun. That's.... she'll have to take the plea bargain and agree to release some names in return for a shortened sentence." I snap my teeth shut and fiddle with the chain of my purse.

"Tough." Aaron comments. There's a beat. Siobhan comes over to grab the grass that's left on the coffee table. "Alright you lot?" she asks as she scoops the green into a baggie, her hair brushing the tabletop before she looks up to lock eyes with Joe and pause. She misses a dollar's worth that remains on the paper plate.

"Alright." Aaron responds, hand snaking to Georgie's waist, fiddling with the ribbons there.

"Cracking bash Siobhan. Looove the lights." Bridge coos over her cup as her torso sways in Siobhan's direction. "You look amazing. Where'd you get that dress?"

"You like?" Siobhan raises an eyebrow and strikes a pose, the dime-bag dangling from her fingertips.

"Love." Bridge asserts, nodding haphazardly and I reach over to steady her, hand reaching for her cup.

"It's vintage." Siobhan says, shifting her stance, inadvertently modelling the dress which has shoulder pads protruding to an exaggerated degree beyond her hips and a uniquely flattering cut.

"Booo..." Bridge responds, the want bald on her face as she takes in the stylish number, the hand around her drink tightening in response to my attempts at removing it from her possession.

"Siobhan!!!" a deep voice shouts over the music and Siobhan looks over her shoulder, then back at us, saying, "'Ta loves!" as the track changes to something a little more chill, the bass barely noticeable.

"Tyler, how did you find out about all this?" I ask tersely as I pry Bridge's fingers off the cup. "Come on, Bridge, you've had a lot now..." I mutter as I work on the third digit.

"Mmmm, yeah, Tyler, how'd you hear?" Aaron's voice is muffled by Georgie's hair, his lips by the skin on her neck. Georgie's got a hand in Aaron's hair, clearly in the act of getting back to where they had left off before Tyler's arrival.

"They asked me to film them." Tyler says, a shit eating grin on his face. There's a popping sound from Aaron's end of the couch. Bridge drops the cup into my hands squealing, "Ewwww....Tyler!!! Gross!!!" and practically pushing him over the armrest.

"Dude!" Aaron says, eyes and mouth wide open before he starts snorting with laughter. "You filmed them dogging?!" He's getting way too much out of this, eyes gleaming and teeth flashing as he shakes with mirth. Several heads turn in our direction, peripherally.

"No shit!" Georgie laughs, astounded, her fingers back on her phone and moving like the screen is on fire but she's not allowed to drop it yet.

"Bro, they fucking paid me to, daft arseholes." He's...almost proud of himself, the gobby plonker. Boys. Joe's looking at Aaron, the edges of his eyes crinkling with a smile.

My purse vibrates and I rummage through it.

"Got away just as the police were cuffing 'em" Aaron said, tipping his cup towards Joe in salutation and clinking with Bridge before they both take another glug. Darn. I thought I'd taken that from her?

I huff in annoyance as I finally find my phone, the ringtone indistinguishable over the current track and --- Shit.

Caller I.D. says Harry Styles.


	2. Chinese Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absence makes the heart grow fonder. However long and twisting it may be, I've found the path.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.

Caller I.D.-- _Harry Styles_

If I ignore the call, it goes straight to voicemail and he'll know. If I let it ring, that means I'm doing...something... and I'll need to come up with a plausible excuse. If I take the call--well I _can't_ take the call. It's either willful ignorance or active subterfuge.

I don't see Joe's eyes on my phone, gaze inscrutable as he registers the caller. I don't notice Bridge turning to look at me and actually put down her drink once she catches the name. I don't feel the couch shift as she nudges Tyler and pulls him down from an impromptu showing of his recent film project. The groans of the makeshift audience robbed of their spectacle blend into the noise of too many people gathered in too small a space. I don't pay any attention to Joe punching Aaron's shoulder and his and Georgie's affronted looks before a jerk of the head turns offence to wariness.

"Well fuck." Georgie says summarily. Joe shoots her a look and she grimaces, sitting back and grabbing her phone.

It's still ringing. The rhythmic tremors are almost violent in their strength, the screen flashing invitingly with each wave of pulsation. Joe leans in, his finger tapping the speech bubble and selecting the first response, ' _Sorry I can't talk right now._ ' I look up at him and his eyes narrow. I know Joe's a solid lad, the kind you want in your corner if you're ever going to _be_ cornered between a rock and hard place but I'm no lad. A real man's man is the antithesis to this new age zen persona he's adopted as a result of  that time--

"Mina, you should go." Georgie says bluntly, looking up from her phone, ignoring Aaron's less than subtle peek at her screen and rummaging in her top. Aaron's expression hardens in the blue light cast by Georgie's device, as though someone's filming a time-lapse on a slowly drying clay mask. He looks up and his voice is carefully emotionless as he says, "Yah Mins, Georgie's right. You really should go." The arm slung casually across Georgie's shoulders tightens as she reaches over, extending a hand, ordering: "Take it." Cautiously, my own hand extends and she drops an empty prescription pill bottle into it before retreating to Aaron's shoulder and the comfort of her electronic companion. 

Joe eyes the bottle with a sharp glint in his normally bleary eyes and I pass it off to him. He takes it delicately, turning it in deft fingers, Georgie looking on in interest, abruptly challenges him with, "Ten pounds you won't get it in thirty seconds." To which Joe immediately proves her wrong after some finagling at the edge reveals a matryoshka design of a smaller, perfectly measured bottle within a bottle. Joe's eyes crinkle, his lips quirking an infinitesimal amount as Georgie swears and reaches into the bustier of her corset unearthing a crinkled grey note which she slaps into his open palm. Aaron's chortling snickers serve as an ambient track throughout the entire transaction and Georgie shoots him a withering glare. Hands aloft, he shrugs helplessly, expounding in his defence "I didn't say nothin' babe." Joe shifts to pocket the bill before placing the disassembled bottle in my hands. The compartment and lid rests in the safety of my lap while the bottle is carefully filled with the remainder of Gerry's ten grams and sealed by the requisite pieces. 

"Oh my god." Bridge exclaims as the final piece snicks into place. "You're like a proper James Bond!" she gushes, grabbing the container and holding it up to her nose, her eyes crossing as she examines the clever trick for any hint at its true nature. "More like Jane Bond. That's fuckin' ace, that is." Aaron says, snatching the bottle out of Bridge's grasp to a beleaguered "Hey!" on her part. "I was still looking at that!", she whines. Aaron evades all attempts to apprehend him of his prize, his forearm acting as a shield against the hand in his averted face. "What's...Flu...can...o-zole?" Aaron slowly enunciates, turning the bottle over as he reads the prescription. Bridge's hand retreats to cover her mouth as a snort escapes. Georgie smirks down at the end and Aaron's cheeks redden as he stubs out the blunt in a potted plant on the table. The scent of burning earth pervades the air, mingling with the trail of smoke from the point of contact. A processed child of the mother that welcomes its unrecognizable offspring to the fold of an embrace as indifferent as the moon despite the defeated capitulation of last breaths in the throes of its short spark of life extinguished by--

"It's for yeast infections." Bluntly stated and Aaron wordlessly drops the bottle back in my lap as Bridge begins to laugh outright. I transfer the sinus meds in my purse to the bottle, the cascade of pink pills falling smoothly like a casino coin machine dispensing a payout of cacophonous clinks that satiate the greed and whet the appetite for more risk and reward enterprises. The lid snaps into place with a satisfying click and finds its home in the sanctuary of the cracked leather and worn stitching that is my purse. The generic brand container rolling into the annals of the couch, to be consumed by its folds, seams and cushions for future generations to dispassionately discover when hunting for spare change.

I stand up and turn round, shifting my stance with a jutted hip, purse jauntily slung over one shoulder. "'Ta!" I say, cheery. Joe's eyes crinkle. "'Ta!" Aaron parrots back in an uncharacteristically high falsetto that sets Georgie off in an even higher register of "'Ta!" around the wicked grin she's sporting. Bridge giggles asininely, the high pitched titter morphing into an even higher pitched "'Ta!" as she turns to Tyler, whose head is bowed, chest expanding with air. "'Ta." he croaks in a scratchy, bull-frog baritone that speaks of one too many whiskies and countless cigarettes. "What--" Joe begins as the whole couch dissolves into laughter. "You been listenin' to Barry White, Ty?" I hear Aaron say as I slide past Bridge and Tyler, heading for the porch.

I stumble on the ivory angora rug Siobhan's Nan chose to decorate the room with narrowly avoiding a collision with gyrating bodies that undulate methodically to the incessant pounding underlying the melody. The cool relief of an empty hallway, dark and silent is disturbed by an unyielding hand on my arm, persistent manhandling to a wall and a cage of planted arms barring freedom. 

"Well, well, well. 'ello...Poppet....", each P popped to such an exaggerated extent that I could feel spittle landing on my cheeks. The scent of his beer stained breath pillowing around my ear and drifted into my nostrils, sour and choking down the back of my throat. 

"Hello Gerry.", tone even and impassive. He leans in closer, the fabric of his jeans and sweater, bolstered by the sheer weight of his bulk,  flattens the folds of my dress so the threads of the cotton polyester blend press into my skin. "Sick party, huh?" I say, deceptively carefree as skin pinches and bones creak where the intricate wooden paneling in hallway presses deep into my skin that will certainly leave blueblack impressions in the morning. 

"Sick. Fucking. Party. Huh." He says, each word pushed through teeth gritted together with the force of a pressurized cement press, equal enunciation on each. My lower back is numb from the force with which it is now being crushed into the wall and the fingers curled around the chain link strap of my purse are blanched at the joints and ever so slightly shaking. The skin on the side of my neck warms unnaturally with the ghosty mistiness of his breath, invisible hairs tingling as his lips move with the words, "Sick. Fuck." His eyes are hooded, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a continuous motion clockwork mechanism, a prominent ruddy blush to his cheeks and neck. "You. Sick. Little. Fucker. Everyone warned me. So where is it?" His hair brushes against my cheek as I ask truly confused, "What is where, Ger?"

"BAM!" Every muscle contracts involuntarily as the hands leaned against the wall assault its surface by my ears. "Fucking Hell!" A hand snakes its way around my arm and begins to exert gradual pressure at a rate that becomes immediately restrictive to the blood flow around its grip. Voice soft and sussurus, breathed directly onto the whorls of my left ear, hot and moist and sour, "Where is it, Mina?" I breathe. Shallowly. Every breath is met with the resistance of a solid mass  of bone and skin and muscle and blood, pumping and beating and pulsing with adrenaline and epinephrine, firing neurons and alerting receptors to begin the production of hormones that wreak chaos upon the homeostasis that--

"Mina!", a smooth, bright voice interjects somewhere in the vicinity and all of the pressure is immediately gone, evaporated in the space of moments. The air is cool, the temperature restorative after such suffocating heat, though the grip remains, however relaxed it may be. "I've been looking everywhere for you!" the voice chimes, closer and lilting. 

"Mate, I'm havin' some time with my gal here--" Gerry begins, rough and low, disjointed as though jolted by an electric appliance into a brief exclamation of sound. "Well, as much as I would _love_  to let you get your rocks off, Mina here owes me a little bit of...time..." the man ends suggestively, the last word pondering and numinous, wandering through the space in the hallway, resounding across the wooden paneling, echoing heavily--

"Listen here. Mina owes _me_   _way_ more than--" Gerry begins with force, clearly warming to his subject before he is abruptly cut off with a curt, "Here." Gerry pauses. "I've found myself thinking that this little do needs some more...liveliness...a bit more...punch." The hand outstretched, twitches minutely, fingering the bills so that they fan slightly, revealing their bulk "Why don't you take this and make things more enjoyable for everyone here, hm?" Gerry pauses and meets the gaze of the man offering, who remains impassively cordial, a jaunty edge to his stance.

Gerry eyes the bills and unceremoniously snatches them, taking inventory of their exact denomination and quantity before looking back up at the figure, pocketing the bundle, "Thanks mate. Fair warnin' though, this bird 'ere, she don't do--"

The man cuts him off immediately. "Oh, I'm well aware of exactly who Amina is. Thank you for your kind consideration. I appreciate it." Gerry starts as the man cuts him off, eyes widening and body stiff as he begins his speech before gradually slumping his posture. His hand slides off my arm as he pauses to look between the pair of us. There is no heat in his voice when he says, "You're a right bitch, you know that, Mins?" as a parting shot before making his way to the living room, leaving me face to face with--

"Well Mina. It seems you owe me a favour." He smiles.


	3. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no profit from this work.

_AN: It's as much trash as it ever was._

"Well, Mina, it seems you owe me a favour." He says, his lips curving into a smile that is all teeth, bared and gleaming in the psychedelic shifting light pulsating from the open door of the living room. His fingers are smooth and firm, cool and dry to the point of feeling impossibly scaly like a reptile; a cold blooded predator. His hands pry mine from the chain strap of my purse and immediately manipulate the stiffened claw to interlocking fingers encased within an iron grip that lead my body into the frigid night air of the front porch. The sound of a jammed vacuum cleaner intermittently losing suction dissipates in the night air.

The man takes deliberately exaggerated steps, making an excessive amount of noise and clears his throat before coughing loudly. "Hey!" he calls out and the couple snogging in the love seat disentangle their limbs at what looks like reluctantly awkward angles. "The fuck you want." the girl demands, through swollen lips, voice rough and breathing slightly laboured. Her wrinkled shirt revealing a tanned midsection adorned with a barbell piercing and a disarmingly glittery butterfly charm that matches the colour of her excessively lacy, clearly askew lingerie. Her partner in crime discreetly rearranging his trouser situation, tousled hair flopping down to hide flushed cheeks, tendons in his forearms flexing as he shifts.

"There's a fresh keg with some spliffs and speedballs coming around the back." he says snidely, smile suggestive and knowing in the hazy glow emanating from the dusty lanterns affixed to the beams of the porch. "Yeah?" the bloke says, head snapping up and eyes bright with interest. The girl is standing before he has even finished uttering the word, throwing back a hasty "Cheers!" as she breezes past us into the cottage. Her beau soon joins her, pace more sedate and slightly mincing. I suppose the rearranging was done in haste and not as comfortable as he could have made himself if he had taken the time to--

"I know, if I were to take a look at your phone right now, there would be a call there from a certain mutual friend of ours...hm?" His fingers squeeze a little tighter and I can feel the bones in my fingers grinding unpleasantly against his. His voice is lilting and melodic, aimed at cajoling his listener into a false sense of ease leaving them open and responsive to any subtle requests he might unwittingly pepper into his speech. The words however; they cut like pure carbon fibre steel. He steps closer, his breath hot against my face, the scent minty fresh, sharp and obnoxiously mingling with the product he'd undoubtedly used on his coiffed 'do. "I'm calling that favour in." His phone jingles and he pulls away slightly, hand still ensnared in my own.

"Landon." He says abruptly, almost like he's being cut off even though no one is there to interrupt him. His eyes are trained on me in an uncanny thousand mile stare like an assassin zeroed in on their target and preparing for the kill shot to fulfill their contract and collect the undoubtedly generous compensation. "No." The response is curt and immediate, nary a pause to suggest malleability or weakness. Landon always did mean business. If ever a person were confused about the idea or definition of a businessman, just one look at Landon, however brief would give them the absolute ideal of type. He is the epitome of poised, polished, and polite. He is also, fiendishly self-serving and devilishly cutthroat. I don't know Landon's last name, I've never had a cause to learn it and hopefully I will never have a need to find out.

He practically jabs the screen of his phone and shoves it in his pocket as he takes large, purposeful strides towards the edge of the property, jolting the socket of my shoulder as he drags my body along. "So where are we headed, Land?" I ask offhand, free arm swinging through the crisp evening air, fingers caressing the breeze his trajectory has created. He turns his head sharply to give me a brief, side-eyed glance and responds, catty, "If I know you, Mina-and I like to think I do; I'm pretty sure you know exactly where we're headed." He turns his eyes back to the now gravelly dirt road that carves through the hills growing almost directly outside the wrought iron fence. The light of one solitary, industrial strength, street light casts shadows that undulate and vacillate so erratically that they seem to grow beings with purposes all their own. They move as though of their own volition, untethered to any object whose mass has created them. They seem to be slithering closer and closer--

"Right now, we're headed to my car." Landon says, tone dry and jerks at my arm with such force that my teeth snap shut, clacking against each other audibly. He digs his keys out of his other pocket and the car comes to life with a purr verging on a roar, like a beast toying with its half-dead prey before it settles down to business. He flings the car door open with a solicitous, "If you please." before depositing me in the passenger seat. My spine hits the back awkwardly before I immediately slide down the lush leather upholstery whose finish is as sleek as butter and twice as creamily pigmented. "What a gentleman." I mutter into my collarbones, words unsteady even under my breath.

He spares a moment to snort discretely before he slams the door shut and it clicks automatically, locking. I grip the flesh of my thighs with the hand he had released, fingers flexing as the blood circulates back into veins recently compressed and rest my bag on the seat against my thigh, chain sliding down to my elbow. Landon situated himself smoothly into the drivers seat, snapping the belt into place and giving me the side eye, gaze calculating as he deposited the cellphone from his pocket to the empty cupholder. "You appear to have indulged quite a bit tonight. I've never seen you so... _pliant_ " He lingered on the last word, tone oily and insinuating as he maneuvered the vehicle off the grass and onto the road. 

"Nothing you haven't taken." I snapped back, caustic, quick to nip that particular avenue in the bud. The light from the passing street-lamps intermittently illuminating the oak panelling of the dashboard set among the glimmering gold detailing of the GPS system . Landon's smirk grew to reveal teeth that shone in the glow emanating from the icons and indicators behind the wheel. "Still true to form, I see. Stubborn as a mule, as the saying goes." he mocked, words slow and deliberate, plunking heavily into the silence like skipping stones in a pond if you haven't quite mastered the trick or indeed learnt at all. "So how is our mutual friend doing?" I ask and Landon's smile cools, teeth visibility greatly diminished. He thumbs a button conveniently located on the steering wheel and the radio blares to life. 

"-- _loving the sound of this. So basically, the whole show tonight is tracks I picked up on my travels. Here is Sapphire Slows by: Piece of You..."_

I raise a cynical eyebrow but sink deeper into the plush leather seat as the mind-numbing EDM beats wash over us both. Landon's shoulders droop infinitesimally, knuckles whitening as his grip on the wheel tightens and he says "He's always been... careful. As of late, he's become...less so." I roll the vertebrate in my neck until the side of my head is crushing my ear into the headrest, eyeballs relieved of their strain. His impassive eyes in the dark of early morning dart to meet mine before returning to the road before him and he sighs. "It's beginning to... _impact_  us." He haltingly reveals. For Landon, this is as close to stuttering incoherence as he gets, fumbling with words something as alien to him as an unscripted press conference to a politician. 

"You understand the nature of this arrangement." His voice is terse, his words curt while he deftly steers the car onto the motorway, before evening out into the non-existent traffic of early Saturday morning. The dimly -lit country roads shift immoderately into well illuminated motorways, his face no longer morphing from the stark relief of the shadows cast in rural night, shifting from a mask in chiaroscuro to a badly faded vintage photo in between light posts in the urban light pollution. "Roger that, El Capitano." I trip over the last syllables, over-enunciating as a hand wobbles up into a parodic salute, before dropping back down onto my lap. 

 Just in time to pull into the hazardously derelict awning of the 22 Division Police Headquarters, swarmed with their usual bevy of reporters: retired veterinarian with a penchant for Agatha Christie murder mysteries: Jean Whiting and her intern Bill. Now, I call Bill 'her intern', he's really Jean's youngest grandchild tasked with looking after his Nan for the duration of the summer hols after a bash that went bosh in a not so boss way. Let's just say that--"Bill! Bill!" Jean was now smacking her grandson's arm with the carpet bag clutched in her wizened claw. "Gerroff that damned phone!" she yelled into his ear. He batted one eye, closest to his Nan's spittle and then turned to take in the scenery, thumbs still moving. "Nan, you  _need_ ta chill." He said adamantly, glancing at the car and then doing a double take as he clocked the make and model. 

His pupils contract and the irises expand, the stroma elongating with stila of pigment that conjointly create the cerulean tracking our progress towards the guarded gate . I wink, he startles and head bowed, his thumbs fly at a speed a hair's breadth away from cartoon-like exaggeration. Landon leans into the door casually, "Mornin' George." He says. "Alright, Mr. Giller." The policeman mutters gruffly before lumbering to the controls, muttering into his radio, static in the background as we glide through the clanking metal gates. Landon parks at the back of the building, careful to avoid any unsightly eyelines that any telescopic lens might capture. 

His fingers nimbly manipulate the controls and the motor stills, the electric hum subsiding abruptly, the absence of sound all-engulfing. We sit in a cocoon, on the precipice of motion, the evening outside muted and lights casting shadows upon shadows into the sculpted interior. Landon's spritely fingers are gripping the taut, glimmering threads of his trousers, the shimmering fabric bunching like a candy wrapper in the darkness. "So--" I start and observe his shoulders tense, muscles achieving an unnatural stillness before his voice supersedes my own. "I'll wager this beauty that you'll do what's required of you in there, Amina.", his eyes bore into mine as the fabric begins to crinkle under his fingers. "As you wish, Landon Giller." I say. He winces.


	4. There's Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no profit from this work.  
> This is unbetaed. Read at your own risk.

The inside of a police station has this energy about it that is difficult to place and impossible to ignore. It  _is_  a workplace but the nature of the work is so life-altering and categorical for those recipients of justice, that coupled with the blasé attitude of those administering the life-altering, makes for a bleak but charged atmosphere that leaves an individual alert without tangible cause. A brain on edge and a body confused.

"Alright Mina?" A short plump woman firmly ensconced in middle age with an aggressive perm and extravagant nails asks with wary cheer.

"Alright, thanks Jodie." I reply with a familiarity that speaks of past acquaintance. Her eyes crinkle in response and I can't help myself. "Y'alright Jo?" I ask and feel the words dissipate so quickly into the air that it's almost as though they were never uttered. The crinkles deepen, the edges downturn and her extravagant nails busy themselves with each other as her lips purse for a moment too long.

"We've been keeping busy, luv." She says jauntily, her answer hanging awkwardly in the air. I fiddle with the chain of my purse and rack my brains for an appropriate response before an officer interrupts the increasingly awkward silence by striding past and leaning against the counter, completely blocking Jo from sight. Her exclamation of reproach is faintly tinged with delight, belying her ire and the man chuckles at her admonishments.

"Aiden Breadshire! If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times-!" He cuts her off "Don't be blocking the lobby!" He sing-songs in a parody of her voice and she smacks him as he chuckles.

The fluorescent lights overhead flicker as Aiden the officer leans in again and starts to utter another charming rejoinder but Jo interrupts him almost before he can get the first syllable out.

"Mina dear! You can push this awfully rude bloke straight out o' the way! Don't hafta be polite to the likes of 'im!" Aiden the officer turns sharply at this and I am met with the handsome, tanned face of a young man just entering adulthood proper. His eyes are a rich, molten coffee colour that sharpens as he takes in my almost certainly tousled appearance and he moves aside as though on reflex.

"Mornin'" he says, voice low and measured in sharp contrast to his previous teasing.

"'Lo" I say, drawing the syllable out in uncertainty.

"You alright?" He asks after a quick catalogue of my entire self and I look quickly at Jo who is busying herself with the computer I witnessed Bill teaching her how to use. I narrow my eyes at her machinations, taking a quick fortifying breath before spewing, "I'm actually here for Liv." with a stolid sort of trepidation and look up at him just in time to catch the molten irises shift to something flat and flint-cold.

"Liv?" He asks carefully. It's my turn to assess him and I see Jo behind him, surreptitiously side-eyeing our exchange with a shuttered gaze.

I sigh, "Olivia Macnamara." I say in resignation.

His eyes flicker briefly in recognition and Jo takes an overly indulgent sip of her tea. He turns to Jo who levels a  _look_  at him as I nervously fidget with the chain of my purse. There is a quiet moment as Officer Aiden briefly fingers his walkie talkie before he moves efficiently towards the partition separating the lobby from the precinct floor and opens the door with a keycard attached to his uniform. He looks back at me and jerks his head, saying "Come on in," in a brisk tone of encouragement as I speed past the threshold before he can close it on me like some farcical prank that I could see him pulling on Jo. I meet her gaze as I pass her station and she blinks sharply, her lips quirking infinitesimally and I smile warmly in response.

I see her turning back to face the lobby in my periphery before Officer Aiden snaps the partition shut and I jump to follow him, clutching at the strap about my shoulder with the desperation of grabbing a life preserver in the midst of a shipwreck. He strides into the room with purpose, seemingly unaware of the glances we gather in our wake. He leads me to a small, comfortably outfitted room for a police station, clearly meant for the public and says, "Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. I'll just let the Constable know you're here." I nod tersely and he eyes me once more before leaving the room and closing the door. It clicks shut with a finality that registers in the pit of my stomach which feels as though it is doing Olympic-level diving combinations at the moment. I pace the room. It's a restive, pastel green colour, filled with a worn row of utilitarian chairs nailed to the floor and a rickety table piled precariously high with old magazines, some generic posters on the wall and a large black clock ticking away the hour above the only door situated beside a glass window that looks onto the bustle of the station. I stare at the officers working for a moment before turning to the table and swiping a random magazine from the top of the pile and slumping into one of the chairs, purse falling snugly between the armrest and my hip.

I flick through the magazine and have barely gotten through the first five pages of ads when the door bursts open and a blustering, greying man in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, strides in, cell phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, clipboard stacked with a bundle of wrinkled paperwork and a pen scribbling viciously, carving a line of jagged script. He spares me an exasperated glance, muttering belligerently, "I bloody well  _know_  that!" into his shoulder and motioning sharply with one clipboard-occupied hand to move through the door he is chivalrously holding open. ' _What a gentleman_ ', I think sarcastically before dropping the magazine, fall where it may, as I shoot up and out of that room barely in time to avoid the door slamming shut and the man hustling me with the sharp edge of a clipboard across the precinct, to a private office located in one extensively glass windowed partitioned corner of the room.

"You don't think that you can do this to me and--" he says tersely into the phone before being abruptly interrupted, judging by the way he cut himself off. He drops the clipboard with a disgusted flick of the wrist that has it skidding to a stop at a misshapen clay sculpture and rattling the intake tray dangerously. He turns swiftly to face the opposite wall which is tacked with information and string, photographs and maps and bullet pins. He grunts in acknowledgement to whatever the person on the other end is saying, gruff and begrudging as he runs a free hand through his hair. I squint at the board that the far wall has morphed into but can make no sense of it since the dime is still coursing through my system. Brilliant. Terrifically stereotypical for a detective in possession of a board like that, but there you have it. Detective Inspector Gaborine was rarely a man of anything but the strictest convention. Which is perhaps why he has such an enormously inimitable distrust of my existence.

"Welcome back, Miss Balendin." DI Gaborine heaves a sigh as he turns back to face me, slipping the phone into his pocket. I stand as stiff as a board by the doorway of his glassed off little corner of the precinct and eye the utter disaster that is his desk.   
"Have a seat." He says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk as he sits heavily in his own near-armchair of a office chair and pulls the discarded clipboard towards him, perusing the enclosed documents.

I sit on the edge of the seat, settling my purse into the space between my thigh and the armrests, the chain still hooked to my shoulder. He looks up from the files on his desk and leans back settling into the plush backrest and crosses his arms.   


"So, Amina, I hear you're here on behalf of Olivia Macnamera." He states, an undercurrent of mild curiosity just barely noticeable over his assessing gaze.

"I may be." I tease, playing with the chain of my purse.  
"Cut the shite, Mina." He snaps and I drop the chain as though it's fresh from the forge.  
"I heard you brought in a good friend of mine and I'm here to tell you she's a hot mess express." I say.  
"I haven't got time for teenage drama." DI Gaborine sighs, tired and disappointed, his hands reaching for the documents again. "You know where the exit is. Jodie will make sure you're signed out." He says, sounding weary as he searches his wreck of a desk, mind already on other matters.   
I grit my teeth and reply tightly, "You're idiots if you try to prosecute her." DI Gaborine stills in his hunt for whatever it is which is probably crushed underneath a pile of depositions and reports. "Her aunt is chief crown prosecutor, Letitia Claireborne."   
DI Gaborine drops the files with a vehement, " _Fuck_ ," under his breath, ".... meaning her uncle is Lord Claireborne." He mutters and slumps ever so slightly. He is silent for a prolonged moment before looking up at me. "Thank you Mina." He says sincerely before making to get up, whipping his phone out of his pocket and already unlocking it to make some clearly urgent call but I remain seated. The lack of corresponding movement in my vicinity has him looking up from his dialling. 

"Something else?" he asks lightly but his brows are drawn emphasizing the deep set wrinkles in his forehead.  
"Jodie mentioned how busy you've been lately." Each word is said with a slow and careful deliberateness that has DI Gaborine's brows descending impossibly further. 

"Mina..." Gaborine intones, a warning edge apparent as he trails off.   
I soldier on, "I could help."   
"With what, exactly?" His spits out, mocking. "I don't have cases suitable for unqualified, barely legal girls to be  _around_  let alone  _involved_  with," is his terse reply to my offer.   
"I'm not asking for a case..." I trail off suggestively, taking a page out of Gaborine's book. The silence drags as we lock eyes, his own narrowed, face a mask as the clock behind him ticks away the time.   
"It would be highly illegal for you to-" His phone rings, interrupting his verdict and I want to groan with impatience as he takes up the call. 

"Gaborine." He barks and proceeds to say exactly nothing for the next ninety seconds in which the phone is pressed to his ear, after which he gingerly places it on the table. He takes a breath, appearing to steady himself and says, polite as anything, "Jodie has your contact info, I presume?"

"Yes."   
"And-"He cuts himself off and swallows.   
I decide to take him out of his misery. "I'm here to make sure that Olivia gets home safe. Her dad's worried about  _his_   _step-brother's_  car getting impounded." I make sure to keep my tone light but appropriately grave considering the situation.   
"Right. Well. Good." DI Gaborine looks flummoxed, the placeholders falling out of his mouth disjointed and meaningless.  
"Everyone knows she has a big mouth and a bigger imagination." I suggest.  
"That's...a bad habit." DI Gaborine replies slowly.  
"And she has the absolute worst luck, ever. Last year, she nearly didn't make it to our grad trip. It was  _so_  tragic." I shake my head in exaggerated sorrow.   
Gaborine looks like he's swallowed a particularly vile spoonful of cough medicine. He clears his throat. "How unfortunate," he offers.  
"Yeah, it really sucks. I mean, that trip took  _so_  much organizing. The teen angst and drama was  _real_. " I sigh dramatically and give him my best hang-dog expression.  
DI Gaborine looks about set to combust so I drop the pout. "Mina..." he all but growls and I almost feel for the man. Almost.  
"I'll just go get Olivia and Jodie can make sure us  _unqualified, barely legal_  girls sign out so we can get out of your busy hair." I smile beatifically at him as he clenches and unclenches his fists which rest on the table next to his phone. Satisfied, I get up from my seat, hand on purse and turn to go before he shoots up as well desperately stating, "Make sure to leave your number with Jodie. We  _will_  be calling you." I give him a conciliatory tip of the imaginary cap and he nods with a sense of finality before accompanying me to the door wherein we both pause.  
"His name was never mentioned."   
"Har-" DI Gaborin starts and I react without thinking, reaching a hand out, the mere movement of which has him flinching minutely, name dying on his lips. I allow a grin to slowly engulf my entire face, cheeks bulging in malicious pleasure at his fearful reaction.

"I know what kind of ' _help_ ' you give, Amina Balendin." He states, words clipped. "And it's not the sort I would like for myself." He solicitously holds the door to his office open.  
"But you will be calling me." I inquire blandly, the question notably absent in tone.  
"Oh, yes. Of that you can be assured." DI Gaborin says with a pleasant sort of vindication. 


End file.
